


the miles we've walked

by iihappydaysii



Series: Founding Father Fetishes [1]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst, Come Eating, Crack, Foot Fetish, Gross, M/M, Pining, Scents & Smells, Smut, again i said what i said, anyway, don't read if you have a sensitive stomach, god fucking bless america, obviously, we're all going to die, yes this is gay george washington smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iihappydaysii/pseuds/iihappydaysii
Summary: jamie fraser never thought much about his feet. not until george washington showed him why he should.
Relationships: I said what I said - Relationship, Jamie Fraser/George Washington, Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey, mentioned
Series: Founding Father Fetishes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688647
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17
Collections: Outlander Bingo Challenge





	the miles we've walked

**Author's Note:**

> for the george washington square of the outlander bingo 2020. Also because I'm a little shit.

Jamie could not count the miles he’d walked on his feet. The steps he’d taken back and forth over two continents. He could not possibly remember all the times his feet had ached or been injured, could not count the times he’d relied on them to get him through the next day, the next hour, the next minute or second. He couldn’t count the times because he’d never really thought about his feet. Not the way you think about things that are important. And feet, they  _ were  _ important. But, still, he’d never thought about them—not until he met Colonel Washington. 

Washington—now a President rather than a Colonel had walked many miles of his own, different miles but maybe not any less difficult. He’d loved and he’d lost. He’d cared for causes and watched them slip through his fingers like soil. He’d wanted and not understood why. He had regrets, like Jamie did, of people who he should have loved, who found pretty fake French spies and moved on without him. But that was… he couldn’t think about regrets now.

Not here, not tucked away in this quiet room at the edge of Mount Vernon, with a roaring fire and this man who had done the thing Jamie couldn’t do and brought the English to their knees. 

Washington took a sip of white wine, then made a clucking sound with his tongue that whistled through ivory teeth that glimmered in the candlelight. He’d once told Jamie he had a set made entirely of hippopotamus ivory, which was strange but not unimpressive as far as false teeth went.

He kicked off his black boots, so only woolen stocking remains and left the leather in a heap by the fire. 

“You know how hard it is for me to ask for this,” Washington said, eyes cast down to the floor.

“I ken.” Jamie took several deliberate steps across the floor, then sank to his knees before the man. 

Maybe he should feel shame for what they did here in private, but he did not. He was so tired of shame, of its weight on his shoulders, of its weight on his heart. Shame had caused as much damage and loss as any bullet wound, any iron or shackle. The shame he’d once felt about finding pleasure in a man—or even more terrifying--finding that same heart-trembling, life altering feeling with a man that you were meant to find with a woman. He had found it once with Claire, yes, but then he’d found it again with man, but not the President. This with him was about something far different than love and he was grateful for it.

Washington undid his breeches and Jamie saw a sight that had grown to be familiar.

“My mouth…Mister…? My mouth?” he corrected himself of the title he used for the man during the day. Here, they were not their titles or positions, they were stripped down to skin and sinew, simply individual body parts brought together by chance to become men and hold their souls.

Jamie used his mouth. Washington used his hand to guide him. Jamie used his tongue, and Washington used his too to wrap around a litany of curses. He’d done this enough to know the twitch, the throb like a heart against his lips. It was time to back up, to use his hand. Not that he minded the taste of it on his tongue but that wasn’t what the President was asking for tonight. 

Jamie stopped using his mouth and started using one of his hands, slow and practiced. He used the other to remove sodden wool from long-suffering feet. He tossed them on the leather boots, the movement releasing a salted, savory fragrance, like a slice of aged parmesan. 

He quickened his hand, knowing just the right way to move his thumb to… and Washington was gasping and clawing at the leather arm chair, spilling seed all over the tops of his own feet. 

The liquid spilled over the grey line of hair, down between the toes and over thick toenails to the expensive wood floor. 

Jamie wrapped his hand around Washington’s calf, squeezing it, then he brought the man’s big toe to his lips. With the tip of his tongue, he licked a stripe of seed, then brought the entire thing into his mouth, using his tongue and lips the same as he had on the man’s prick. And the President made just the same wanton noises. 

He didn’t stop there, either. He couldn’t. There was something about this. The raw, nakedness of it that he could not resist. His own cock ached between his legs, begging to be seen and accepted so thoroughly, to be given just what he was giving now. And he would get it, if he asked for it—and tonight, he would. 

Jamie licked the soles of his feet now, tasting soot from a campfire, feeling the grit of dirt between his teeth. He spit and then carried on. He didn’t enjoy the taste of it, the sweaty, ripeness of the stray bits of wool on his tongue that he caught from licking deeply between the toes. He didn’t enjoy it, but he craved it. Needed it. Needed the brutal, raw and awful way it made him exist in the present, made him become utterly honest with himself. 

With the mistakes he’d made. With the things he let go, that he should have held on to with all his strength.

By the time, Jamie was finished with the second foot, he was licking his own salty tears from the skin as much as seed and soot. 

A fire-warmed hand reached out to him, cupping his cheek and guided him up. He kissed that same molded taste into the President’s mouth and he licked inside, as if he could take it back from him, release him from the momentary burden of being completely honest with himself.

“Would ye… for me… tonight?” Jamie asked against his lips.

“You know that I will. I should face myself tonight as well.” Another quick kiss and they were changing places, Jamie sinking into the soft leather. This great general, this defeater of empires, kneeling before him. About to partake in the same ritual that he himself had just completed.

As leaned back to allow it, Jamie felt the weight of the truth still heavy upon him, and he was glad for it. He didn’t want to forget. Not what he’d lost, not anything about it. He came here, to his place, to this man, for that reason. Washington had his own, but this was Jamie’s.

To remember that yes, his feet were here with George Washington, with this leader of a new, free land, but his heart… his heart was somewhere, anywhere, with an English lord and his bonny blue eyes. 

  
  



End file.
